


To Be Taken Care Of

by TheRoyalViolet



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Boys In Love, David Jacobs is Good, Hurt Jack, Jack gets hurt and Davey helps, M/M, Self-indulgent fluff, hey we gotta get through quarantine somehow, mild hurt-comfort, no period-typical homophobia because i said so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:07:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25714033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRoyalViolet/pseuds/TheRoyalViolet
Summary: “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”Jack’s throat tightens. He stares, breathless, at Davey. Davey, who has a million and one words for every situation but has lifted the world from Jack’s shoulders with just five. Finally, he slumps and lets a night’s worth of tears fall.Jack gets soaked and is stubborn about it. Davey knows how to help.A semi-sequel to @LiveSincerely's work "there's more than diplomacy for you, dear" which is definitely worth reading.
Relationships: David Jacobs/Jack Kelly
Comments: 17
Kudos: 98





	To Be Taken Care Of

It’s 10 o’clock at night, an hour after the poker game should have started, when Jack stumbles in, looking and feeling like a corpse returned from the dead. The first thing he notices is that there are more newsies in the front room than he’s ever seen. The second thing he notices is that every one of them is rushing him, their faces awash with shock and relief in equal measure.

“Where the hell have you been?!”

“—late for poker, you ain’t never late—"

“You’re bleedin’, Jack—”

“I’ll kill whoever it was, I swear!”

The boys gradually fall quiet, waiting for Jack’s response. The silence is unbearable, an unforgiving reminder that these boys _need_ him, that they look to him for answers. At the moment, he has none to give. He sets his gaze across the room, steels himself, and wordlessly advances toward the stairs.

One by one, the boys clear a path, though some of the younger ones need a push from Specs or Albert before scurrying out of Jack’s way. As he passes, he consciously steadies his pace, walking in time with his throbbing head, so that hopefully no one will notice how badly he wants to favor his right leg. No one seems to see the leg, having been sufficiently distracted by Jack’s bruises and swollen eye, except, of course, the lodging house’s resident expert on bad legs.

“Jack, what happened?” Crutchie steps out of the crowd to block Jack’s path and takes in his appearance at lightning speed, and Jack knows that he’s clocked every visible injury and probably a few he can’t see.

Jack meets Crutchie’s eyes. For a moment, they both stand there, staring, as Jack feels his resolve breaking. He breathes in. Breathes out. Looks at the faces of the littles, who need him to be their fearless leader. Every muscle in his body wants to collapse and let the boys take care of him, but he settles for slowly, painfully, raising an arm and putting a hand on Crutchie’s shoulder. He smiles thinly, without a trace of joy, and continues his march toward the stairs.

Thankfully, Crutchie seems to understand what Jack needs, because he maintains his position between the newsies and Jack, trying desperately to talk them out of following him. Though Jack doesn’t turn around, he can hear their argument all the way up to the second floor.

“Look, Crutchie, he needs help—” Specs starts.

“I know you wanna fix him up, but he can take care of himself,” Crutchie replies.

“You know how he is, stubborn as shit, he ain’t gonna let us help even if we tried,” Henry points out with an exasperated sigh.

“But we can’t just leave ‘im alone!” This sparks a renewed round of chatter, until Race’s piercing voice cuts through it all.

“Hey, Albert’s right. We ain’t gonna leave him alone. Crutchie, you gotta let me go. I gotta make sure that idiot doesn’t do nothin’ stupid.”

“I know Jack better than I know me, Race. We gotta give him space.”

“I’m his second—”

“And I’m his brother!”

“We’re all his brothers! We help each other!”

“Which means knowing when to _leave damn well enough alone!_ ”

Jack wrenches the dormitory door closed, cutting off the storm of voices below, and immediately deflates against the wall. For a while, he can’t bring himself to move, because the wall is doing much better at holding him up than his legs were, but after a few deep breaths, he drags himself to Specs’ bunk, where he knows there are a couple spare bandages. He sits down gingerly, stretching his legs out. Not having been injured this badly in a long time, he’s not even sure where to start. Davey would tell him to “take stock of the situation” and figure out where exactly he’s hurt, but he doesn’t know if that will help, seeing as the answer seems to be “everywhere.” So he takes a moment and just rests there on Specs’ bed, feeling mildly guilty for bleeding on it, and wishes for the pain to go away.

The volume from downstairs rises again, and Jack strains his ears to hear what’s happening. There’s a new voice in the mix, renewing the pleas for Crutchie to step aside and let someone attend to Jack. Privately, he hopes Crutchie gives in eventually, because he’s not keen on the idea of wrapping a broken ankle on his own. At the same time, he hears the newsies’ voices during the strike, calling him _leader, hero,_ _the best._ He knows how they see him. Bloodied, exhausted, and weak isn’t how he’s supposed to look in front of the other guys. In their imaginations, he could get knocked down and be up selling papes again with a smile the next morning, so that’s what he has to do. But first, he has to get the damn bruises cleaned up.

He begins fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, when the voices spike again.

“Crutchie, what the hell!”

“Jus’ like that?”

“—try to talk some sense into ‘im, for God’s sake!”

The door opens. Jack turns. Davey stands there, his eyes wide.

Jack thinks he’s about to get a lecture, or that Davey will flip out and smother him in medical supplies. Instead, Davey crosses the room in an instant and kneels in front of Jack, taking both of Jack’s hands in his. Davey stares at their entwined hands for a moment, then lifts his eyes to meet Jack’s and says,

“You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Jack’s throat tightens. He stares, breathless, at Davey. Davey, who has a million and one words for every situation but has lifted the world from Jack’s shoulders with just five. Finally, he slumps and lets a night’s worth of tears fall.

Between heaving breaths, he sees Davey pull out a handkerchief, and he almost laughs (a handkerchief? In a time like this?). He moves to take it, but then Davey is wiping away Jack’s tears with the gentlest touch he’s known in ages. What’s more, Jack lets him. Just sits there and lets this wonder of a boy dry his tears.

He’s ready for time to stop, for the world to let the two of them live in this moment forever just as he captures frozen moments in his paintings, but Davey shatters it, saying lightly,

“Let’s see about getting you cleaned up.”

Jack nods mutely and feels a pang when Davey’s hand pulls away from his. To his surprise, Davey knows where Specs keeps the bandages, and he returns from the washroom with water almost before Jack knows he’s gone. He keeps his eyes fixed on some blurry spot straight ahead until Davey’s hand reappears under his chin, tilting his face into the light.

As Davey begins to wipe the blood from Jack’s face and neck, the dreaded, inevitable question tumbles casually from his mouth.

“What happened?”

Jack just sits for a moment, debating how to answer. “Long story,” he mumbles.

“We’ve got time,” Davey answers, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. His expression softens, and he adds, “It’ll be easier to assess your injuries if I know what happened, Jack.”

Somehow, Jack can never argue with Davey’s logic. It’s one of those things he’s never understood, how Davey can win anyone over with a few well-placed words. He knows he’ll never forget the first day of the strike, the ideals and the passion rushing forth from Davey and the way he’d shouted along, the two of them stirring the boys into action together. He smiles faintly at the memory, but sobers quickly when he remembers the question still hanging in the air. _What happened?_ He was stupid, that’s what happened. Davey won’t settle for that answer, though, Jack is sure of it, so the whole story works its way out of Jack’s mouth.

“Rough selling day,” he starts, the words thick through swollen lips. “I wanted to stay out, instead of selling the papes back. Finally got done, later than usual. I told Crutchie to start on home while I went to the store to look for some medicine or somethin’ for Romeo. His cough’s gettin’ real bad, Davey.”

Davey nods, continuing his methodical strokes with a wet rag across Jack’s face. Jack closes his eyes and continues.

“Didn’t find anything. Need a couple more days’ worth of money. But that’s why I was out late alone. I wanted Crutchie to get back in time for poker.” He chuckles briefly, sucking in a breath at the twinge in his ribs.

“Then what?” Davey prompts.

“I was goin’ on my way when I heard ‘im. Oscar Delancey, swearing up a storm behind me. Had his brother with ‘im, and I was gonna just keep going, but then I saw the other two guys. Two of Snyder’s biggest, ugliest goons from the Refuge. Don’t know what they were doin’ walking around with the Delanceys. Don’t really care. But I…” He trails off, not wanting to admit the next part out loud.

“Jacky,” Davey says, and the nickname reminds him whose very capable hands he’s in. He can tell Davey anything.

“I froze,” Jack confesses. “I let ‘em back me into an alley while they were saying all this shit because I was scared. Those guys… you ain’t never seen them, Davey. They’re the nastiest guys you’ll ever meet, ‘cept for the Spider himself. I was scared, and they got a jump on me. Snyder’s goons remembered me, knew how much the Spider hated me. Thought they’d get a few shots in for their old boss. I figure they like hurting folks for fun, same as the Delanceys, otherwise they wouldn’t have gone as long as they did. And the whole time I was barely fighting back, because everything they were saying…”

“It took you back to the Refuge,” Davey finishes quietly. Jack nods, then decides to change the subject. The place may be closed, but he doesn’t want to think about it any more than he has to.

“Got me lots of times in the face, lots in the stomach. Don’t think any ribs are broken, but I ain’t sure. And, uh, I twisted an ankle falling hard over somethin’, not sure what, an’ Morris stepped on it and broke it, that piece of shit.”

“Which ankle?”

“Right.” Davey glances down at the ankle in question, then resumes tending to Jack’s other wounds. The cut above his eyebrow from a pair of brass knuckles has finally stopped bleeding, so Davey unbuttons Jack’s shirt with a feather-light touch and begins assessing the bruising on his stomach and chest. Jack lets him work in silence for a while, grimacing as Davey pokes at his ribs to check for breaks. This silence is easier than the newsies’ silence; it doesn’t pressure him or ask anything of him. He just watches Davey’s hands work their magic.

Finally, Davey unlaces Jack’s boots and pulls his socks off, staring at the swollen purple mess of an ankle. Davey’s jaw clenches, and he runs a hand through his dark hair.

“This shouldn’t have happened,” he says, his voice even but his eyes blazing with his own particular brand of righteous fury.

“I know,” Jack says, a familiar frustration rising in him. “I was an idiot. I shoulda run, shoulda done something—”

“That’s not what I meant.” Davey cuts him off firmly.

“Dave—”

“No, Jacky. I know what you want to say, and this isn’t your fault, damn it! I meant this shouldn’t have happened because it was four to one, it was totally unfair, and you were only out there because you were looking out for Romeo. I know you haven’t slept in nearly three days because you’ve been spending every waking moment trying to help him get better, so yes, you were at a disadvantage being sleep-deprived and outnumbered, but that doesn’t mean it was your fault. It’s their fault, every bit of it, and Snyder’s, too, for doing what he did to you.”

Davey pauses to breathe, and he shakes his head like he’s wiping his own anger away before finishing, “We’ll take care of them tomorrow. Right now, I just want to take care of you.”

He wraps Jack’s ankle as those last two sentences echo in Jack’s mind. For one thing, Davey implying that he’s prepared to kick someone’s ass is new. More importantly, though, Davey wants to take care of him. Davey will let him rest, let him stop being the leader of lower Manhattan for a few minutes and just be scared and hurting and tired. That is also new. Davey’s talent is sparking action, and so the fact that he’s helping Jack let go for once feels… well, it can’t truly feel wrong when it’s the nicest feeling in the world. It feels so wrong and so nice that he has to ask Davey what it all means.

“Dave?”

“Mhm?” Davey responds, not looking up from his work.

“Well, during the strike, I ran away, and you came and got me off my ass and got me back to work. You wouldn’t let me give up. But now, you’re bein’ all soft with me.”

“Yes,” Davey says, as if Jack is merely stating the obvious.

“But Davey, I don’t get it. You came in here an’ I thought you were gonna start talkin’ at me like you did back then, but you’re takin’ care of me instead. I guess I’m askin’ why.”

“Because it’s what you need,” Davey says simply. “During the strike, you needed to see that there was still hope, and that you were on the edge of doing something great if you stuck with it.”

“ _We_ were,” Jack corrects him.

“We were,” Davey amends. “But now, you need to let me help. I know you want to be strong and take care of yourself in front of the other newsies because you’re afraid that if you don’t, they won’t respect you anymore. They’ll see you as human. But you are human, Jack, and humans get hurt. Humans have to let each other help sometimes. You didn’t need a lecture when I walked in, you needed someone to remind you that you’re safe, and you can let your guard down.”

Davey pins the bandage in place and sits back on his heels with a faint satisfied smile. Jack braces himself against the bed and leans down, stretching his hand out to cup Davey’s face.

“Thank you,” he whispers, stroking Davey’s cheek with his thumb.

“You’re welcome,” Davey replies. “Besides, you’ve fixed me up before when I was hurt. I figured I should return the favor.”

A sneaking suspicion crosses Jack’s mind. “Is that the only reason Crutchie let you come up here? To return a favor?”

“No,” Davey admits. “He thought I might be the only one who could talk you into letting someone help you and getting some sleep for the first time in three days.”

“He was right.” It’s almost uncanny how well Crutchie can read Jack sometimes, though Jack doesn’t mind, just as he doesn’t mind how Davey’s words can get Jack to do anything.

“You know, when I was convincing my mother to let me stay the night here tonight, this isn’t exactly how I pictured spending it,” Davey remarks.

“Oh yeah?” Jack smirks as well as he can through his various injuries. “And what exactly were you picturing?”

“Oh, I thought I’d play some poker, have some fun with the boys.” Davey returns the smirk, his eyes shining.

“You’re shit at poker, Dave,” Jack says bluntly.

Davey rolls his eyes. “I know, Jack. Truth be told, I wanted to spend the night out in your penthouse. Just the two of us.” At Jack’s raised eyebrow, he awkwardly adds, “The weather’s nice.”

Jack shifts toward the edge of the bed. “Well, help me up and I can show you that nice weather, if you want.” He laughs lightly, his first real laugh since Romeo got sick.

Davey jumps to his feet and gently pushes Jack back onto the bed. “Absolutely not. No climbing fire escapes until you’re better.”

“Fine,” Jack huffs. “I can stay here bleeding onto Specs’ bed, and lucky you, you get to keep me company.”

“You know I’d keep you company anywhere, Jack,” Davey answers. Jack looks at him with a soft smile.

“Yeah. I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This is the first fic I have written in years, literally. Divine inspiration (aka a premise from another fic but with the roles reversed) hit at 11:26 PM one night and I stayed up until 3 AM writing this for entirely self-indulgent reasons. My sleep schedule is completely out of whack, but hey, at least this story exists, so I'm calling that a win.
> 
> @LiveSincerely, thank you for the inspiration!


End file.
